


and the walls kept tumbling down (oh where do we begin?)

by andibeth82



Category: Marvel 616
Genre: Alternate Universe - Wings, Deaf Clint Barton, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-30
Updated: 2015-08-30
Packaged: 2018-04-18 01:03:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4686410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andibeth82/pseuds/andibeth82
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There exist two types of people in the world: the ones who will hold out their arms, and the ones who will catch you when you fall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and the walls kept tumbling down (oh where do we begin?)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the **towerparty** flash fic challenge on LJ, for the following prompt: _You have always worn your flaws upon your sleeve / and I have always buried them deep beneath the ground_.
> 
> Naturally, these are Barton brother feelings, with a very large side of angst. Thanks to **gecko** for the read-through and encouragement, all other mistakes mine. Title taken from Bastille.

Clint is five when he tries to fly.

He climbs up the tree that houses the tire swinging lazily from a lower branch, situating himself just high enough above the ground so that he’s not immune to the thrill of danger. Even then, even now, there’s something about being up high that exhilarates him -– being able to see from a distance, a vantage point that he knows sets him apart from the people who would only think that the universe exists in front of or behind them, not up above.

Barney can’t see him, he knows. But Clint can see Barney, walking from the house, his slow gait clearly signaling some kind of pain. Clint moves along the branch, scooting across the narrow limb of the tree until he’s right at the edge, and then, and _then_.

The wind rushes into his ears at the same time the ground rushes up to meet him, and Clint closes his eyes against the inevitable impact, spreading his arms wide, because he can fly, he can _fly_ –-

And then there’s a grunt of pain, a squirming body underneath him, something soft and familiar and Barney’s hands on his back, on his arms, holding onto him as if the world might end.

Clint tries to fly, and Barney catches him.

And Clint knows that will never change.

 

***

 

Clint is seven when he tries to fly.

There’s a dock near the lake where they catch frogs, a long, wide and inviting plank that silently dares him, taunts him, asking him to test its edges. He drags Barney out of the house at six in the morning the moment he feels the start of his wings growing in -- the sharp, tingling sensation between the blades of his spine that quickly dissolves into numbness -- after going to the bathroom and staring at his bare back in the dirty mirror, running his hands over the jagged feathers that are starting to protrude from two small slits surrounded by dried blood.

They slip out using the broken window in the basement and walk hand in hand silently down the road, Barney squeezing his palm every so often and Clint wants to tell him but he knows he doesn’t need to, knows that Barney _knows_ , would know even if there wasn’t the telltale sign of blood leaking in just the right places, soaking the back of his shirt. They arrive at the lake just as the sun is starting to stretch its pink-gold hands across the sky, an unbridled and more welcome sight than what Clint knows would await him at home if he were still in bed, or at the kitchen table, when he finally made his way down for breakfast.

 _You’re a goddamn idiot, gonna get yourself killed_ , Barney signs as Clint walks out onto the dock. Clint turns and smiles at his brother, all teeth, all innocence, all trust.

_Only if you don’t catch me._

When he flings himself off the edge of the dock, the breeze that’s slowly been working its way across the scape of the earth hits him right in the chest, a harness that surrounds him, envelopes him, and then, and _then_.

The cold water skirts the edge of his cheek before he lands in something firm and secure, his brother’s arms tight around his waist, morning breath soft against his cheek where it infiltrates his senses.

Clint tries to fly, but his wings are still too new.

Barney catches him.

 

***

 

There exist two types of people in the world: the ones who will hold out their arms, and the ones who will catch you when you fall.

 

***

 

Clint is ten when he tries to fly.

His wings are golden brown (Barney’s are more muted, fewer light feathers mixed with a darker overcoat) and his brother helps clean them when they are alone. It hurts the first time, when Barney pulls hard at the delicate feathers, struggling to remove the molting ones without yanking fresh quills from where they’ve grown in.

Clint whimpers quietly, the sounds muffled by his face being pressed into his arm from where he’s lying on his stomach. Barney’s hands are gentle in the same way that they’re rough, a sensation Clint knows like it is his own, the only person who has ever touched him with some semblance of love.

It’s the last time they’ll perform that ritual in the safety of their bedroom. They’re sold to the circus the next day for what Clint assumes must be a large sum of money, certainly larger than anything their parents ever had growing up. Clint doesn’t blame them for giving him away, not really -- he’d known long ago that Harold and Edith Barton weren’t the type of people who chose love over more material things.

They’re offered a trailer, food, and their own lump sum of cash, which Barney hides under his pillow with other stolen goods that they’re not technically allowed to have, like candy and gum. When the performers have gone to sleep, Clint goes out onto the trailer roof and stares up at the sky, spreading his wings wide, flapping them once in the night air.

He jumps without pretense, without warning, without knowing whether or not he’s going to hit ground or grass or another person. He jumps, and his wings spread wide, and an emotion wells up inside his chest that causes tears to leak from the corners of his eyes.

Clint tries to fly, and he _can_ fly, and Barney doesn’t technically have to catch him.

But Barney catches him anyway.

 

***

 

“You’ll be the Amazing Hawkeyes,” Buck Chisholm tells them in the ring. _Amazing_ because they have wings, because they are technically considered freaks. _Hawkeyes_ because there were two of them, and they have the feathers of a bird and the sight of an eagle when they’re in the air.

Their routine is the same every night: a swooping show of tricks where they dart back and forth in the tent, twirling and gliding, and sometimes Barney swings his brother into the air, tossing him so high he feels he might reach the sky. Every time Clint falls back down towards earth, Barney catches him.

Every time.

And then at some point, Clint stops feeling scared about falling.

 

***

 

Clint is thirteen when he tries to fly.

They’re in the trenches of New Hampshire woods, setting up camp by an old amusement park; Barney’s napping and Clint can’t sleep. His brother’s wings have been bothering him lately, perhaps too many performances or not enough care, and Clint washes the feathers and brushes down the soft ridges, taking care of Barney as best he can.

When he’s done, he squeezes both of Barney’s shoulders with two hands –-  _love you too, Clint_ , his brother breathes out against the mattress -– then exits the trailer and heads for the big top. He’s not technically supposed to be out after hours, none of the performers are, but Clint’s been aching to find somewhere high enough to sit and be alone that’s not his trailer and so far, has been coming up empty.

The tent is mostly quiet, a few stray animals feigning sleep in their cages, and Clint flies up to the rafters easily, settling himself on the thin wood. He immediately feels his chest open up, the choking sensation and overwhelming anxiety dissipating: it’s easier to breathe up here, as if the air is cleaner, thinner, made for him and him alone. It doesn’t surprise him, this revelation -– he’s always seen better from a distance.

He takes another breath and then stands, his eyes catching sight of the tightrope strung few meters away. The thin wire stretches between the rafters and another pole at the end of the tent, and Clint feels something akin to excitement curling in his chest. He starts to walk across, balancing himself easily on the balls of his feet, shifting his weight where applicable, when suddenly the thick strand disappears from underneath him, arms and legs tangling in confusion as he drops sharply downward.

He tries to spread his wings, to allow himself to fly, but the fall has caught him off guard and his body isn’t trained enough to know how to respond in time. Clint feels the wind rushing through his ears but it’s not a harness, it’s not a cradle -- it’s a monster. And then, and _then_.

He hits the ground hard, pain radiating from an arm he instantly knows is broken, his face pulsating with what he recognizes will be bruises, blood dripping into his eyes from a cut on his head. The last thing he sees before passing out is the man known as the Swordsman, lean, sharp teeth and even darker eyes.

Clint tries to fly, but his wings don’t work.

And Barney doesn’t catch him.

 

***

 

Clint doesn’t try to fly again.

Barney promises if he does fly, he’ll catch him, but Clint doesn’t trust that someone will be there when he falls.

 

***

 

Carson’s Carnival of Traveling Wonders takes a dip in attendance after that, Clint and Barney are mostly blamed due to the fact their act now includes a singular Hawkeye and a brother who has wings but does nothing except spread them listlessly to show off, while sitting stationary in a cage with a few bowls of water.

Clint doesn’t talk about it. Barney doesn’t ask about it. Clint’s already gotten his blame (none for the Swordsman, naturally) and he’s also already gotten his consequences, physically and emotionally. He sits most days with his arm in a sling, ignoring the rest of the world, and Barney cleans his wings every so often so they don’t molt. But Barney never asks Clint if he wants to fly, and Clint never asks Barney if he can.

Barney flies, though. And Barney becomes popular. And Barney becomes a _sensation_.

And then, eventually, Barney comes home a little less, and cleans Clint’s wings a little less.

And Clint doesn’t fly, and Clint gets left behind.

 

***

 

Clint is fourteen when Barney finally drags him out of bed before breakfast and stands him up straight, glaring into his brother’s face with a scowl that reminds Clint of their father.

“Clint. You have to fly.”

He looks down; his aids aren’t in but that doesn’t matter, he’s technically able to lip read just fine.

 _Clint. You have to fly._ Barney’s fingers wave in front of his face, and Clint pushes his hand away.

“You can’t give up your wings!” Barney yells angrily and that’s when he loses it, twisting his face into an angry scowl.

“Like you care? Amazing Hawkeye, party of one, leaving me in the dust because you’re so concerned about _wings_.”

Barney sets his mouth in a hard line. “I’m taking care of us!” he responds hotly. “If it wasn’t for me, if it wasn’t for my act, we’d be out on the streets. You won’t fly, you won’t even go into the rafters. You won’t do _anything_!”

Clint lowers himself to the ground in frustration and folds his legs, feeling his wings spout out of his back as he does so, a _whoosh_ sound that should be comforting, that instead just makes him feel guilty.

“You _need_ to _fly_.”

 

***

 

Clint is fifteen, and doesn’t try to fly. But he hides in the curtains during practice sessions and watches Barney fly, and he wishes that he could.

When he thinks about getting up high again, he realizes that he can’t breathe.

 

***

 

Clint is sixteen and refuses to fly.

The circus has come and gone –- and so has Barney. Clint lets his brother make the deal and doesn’t really watch when they roll out, electing instead to perch in a branch of a nearby tree. He’s climbed up the rough trunk and scratched both of his hands on the coarse bark, and knows he could have just as easily gotten somewhere higher, where he had a better vantage point.

He hasn’t flown since the tightrope fall four years ago, and he’s not about to start now.

The tent goes down first, followed by the trailers and the animals and Clint sits up high, as high as he dares, watching Barney carry large trunks in and out of what has become their home. The circus leaves, and Barney leaves with them, and as the caravan becomes a dot in the distance, Clint finds himself absently wondering who’s going to clean his wings now that his brother is gone.

He cleans them alone that night, and when he realizes he can’t, he feels like he wants to cry.

 

***

 

Clint is eighteen when he tries to fly.

He hides his wings under a thick jacket and gets a job bartending at one of the nearby towns, he sometimes plays piano late at night and sings jazz songs for the patrons to make extra money. He takes girls back to his small apartment but he never lets them undress him.

(They can touch his back, marvel at what they assume are impressive scars, but he’ll never let them see his wings.)

He takes a day off one weekend in September and goes to one of the lakes nearby, the one that has a dock and looks so much like the one he and Barney used to go to as kids. He thinks about Barney depending on how he feels on a given day, because it still hurts and it always hurts, and Clint’s wings haven’t been cleaned properly in over a year.

He walks to the edge of the dock, breathing in the faint trace of salty air and the smells that remind him of home, of the times when he loved to be in the air, his wings, his brother, everything that defined a life that was littered with too little love. He takes a breath and raises his arms, leaps high, and his wings spread wide. There is flight, and there is contentment, and there is everything Clint has ever missed about feeling good all rolled into one rush of wind and sky and open stretches of land and water.

And then, and _then_.

A shadow beside him, the faint smell of morning breath as it passes too close to his cheek, the flash of molted, brown wings that are riddled with more age than necessary, and hands that are signing too close to his face.

_You didn’t think I’d really leave you behind, did you?_

Clint is eighteen when he tries to fly.

And Barney comes back, and Barney catches him.


End file.
